Dads – they’re grrrrrrrreat….

Frosties de Kellog’s, poderosa energía (Photo credit: frosklis)

Forget Tiger Mums, make way for Tiger Dads. Forget Tony “They’re Grrrrrrreat” Tiger of Frosties fame, I’m talking about survival of the fittest; who is the King of the Tigers?

Tiger Mums have been getting a lot of negative press recently and to be honest, I think most of it is justified. This is probably because Tiger Mums make me feel small part inadequate, small part lazy and most part cross. We all want the best for our children and we all feel proud and rather over-excited when they are successful at something – we have to stop ourselves shouting out – ‘that’s my little Johnny, yes, over there, the one who is so so so good at bla bla bla”. However, putting my children forward for MENSA at age 2, insisting on distinction in grade 8 piano by the age of 4, expecting them to be national squad players in at least 6 sports by the age of 10 is just not my thing. Anyway, the genes don’t look good for my children – forget MENSA, I can hardly remember my name these days; I can only just about play Chopsticks despite learning the piano for ten years and as for sport, the only running I do now is a bath at the end of the day.

So what about Dads? Unlike women who often tend to try and hide their “tiger” tendencies – pretending to be all laid back whilst subjecting their children to hour upon hour of extra coaching on the quiet – their little secret – most men are the absolute opposite. They are competitive and they don’t care who knows it and they are utterly incapable of hiding it.

I am not suggesting that all women are like this, or all men are like that – that’s far too simplistic . Of course, there are men out there who are pushing their children to extremes – true Tiger Dads – we’ve all read about them – just as there are lots of women who are competitive for their children without being obsessional. However, just as often little boys behave differently to little girls, the same tendencies are played out in adulthood in relation to their children. Actually most men are not really Tiger Dads, just typical Dads.

Take a kids’ cricket match as an example. Forget the competition between the boys playing – obviously that’s there and anyway a bit of competition is healthy. No, look at the Dads, listen to the Dads. It is as if they have regressed in age by about 30 years and our living out their former competitive glories through their sons. Like Father, like Son. There is humour and ribbing and an awful lot of chat (and that applies to both the boys and their fathers!)

So why is it that the Tiger Mums get the negative press whereas the Dads largely slip beneath the radar, their competitiveness laughed at and even expected? Well, I think it is because the Dads’ competitive nature is so much more palatable to the observer – they are very open about it; they take it seriously but there is still much lighthearted banter amongst themselves. They behave in some ways like the children they are watching – over-excited and noisily competitive – but it feels very natural and not obsessive in the way Tiger Mums are so often portrayed to be.

This sort of competition is healthy. One of my largest problems with schools and children’s activities in the UK today is this overbearing nannying of our children so that we protect them from ever losing at anything, from ever being disappointed. Life is not like that and our kids need to experience the reality of life from early on in a controlled and nurturing environment otherwise they are going to have one large shock when they are grown-up and out there in the real world.

We need to teach our children that you win some, you lose some. We need to teach them that a degree of competition is healthy and there will be a winner and a loser. We have to stop giving every child a medal just so that no-one is singled out as being successful. A confident and balanced child will learn in childhood that they can’t be number 1 at everything, that they will come second, third or whatever and that is just the way it is. They will be secure enough in their own abilities to be able to shrug off the disappointments but also enjoy their successes. Success has become a dirty word and it shouldn’t be. It should be something to be celebrated.

So let these “Tiger Dads” be. I for one find them very amusing and very unthreatening. Their competitiveness is not unappealing but rather endearing. They just want their kids to do well and there is nothing wrong with that, it’s entirely normal. Of course, there are lots of mothers out there who have got the balance just right too. But true Tiger Mums and true Tiger Dads take note, competition is healthy, obsessional pushing is not.

Unpaid Leave

English: Logo for the United States TV series “The Office”. Français : Logo de la série télé “The Office” diffusée aux États-Unis. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For the first time in 9 years I am taking unpaid leave from my job. I am going to Colombia to visit family and leaving my colleague, the husband (strictly speaking my underling as I am Chief Executive and he is my deputy with special responsibility for “financial services and support”) in charge.

Now without wishing to cast aspersions on my colleague’s abilities, I do have my reservations about leaving him to run the “office”. I am not convinced that he really understands the full extent of his new responsibilities and what the day to day running of this extremely busy “office” entails. Not only will he have to deal with the administrative nightmare of scheduling but he will also have to deal with three of my most difficult clients for a whole week. These clients can be particularly demanding and do expect to have someone on call 24/7. It is not unknown for them to call me at 3 am and expect me to perform a full laundering service or the like.

Of course, being such important clients, it is vital that my colleague and I manage a seamless handover of responsibilities and that these clients are virtually unaware of the temporary change in their client relationship manager. I have warned my colleague not to expect much praise or affirmation from these clients – indeed rather to expect numerous complaints and a regular and often harsh critique of services provided.

Unfortunately for my colleague, the “office” driver, chef and laundry assistant are also away the same week as me so he will have to perform their duties too. I realise that he will feel this goes way beyond his job specification and I can only apologise for asking him to do the impossible and carry out my job responsibilities and that of three other “office” workers.

I am of course aware that I am asking a huge amount of him. To this end, I have produced a manual which outlines all the responsibilities and the schedules of our three most important clients. I have stressed the importance to him of ensuring that the schedules run like clock-work and that our clients will not tolerate lateness or a lack of preparedness.

I am very grateful to the large number of female colleagues in different “offices” who have offered their support in my absence and have provided a telephone tree of emergency numbers in case he should find it all too much. I am much comforted by the thought that there is a strong network of very capable women ready to leap into action if required.

I am very keen to let my colleague find his way on his own, prove himself to me. To this end, I would encourage my female friends in other “offices” to hold back unless strictly necessary. Examples of situations which do not require intervention: one or more clients dressed in totally inappropriate, clashing-coloured clothing (to be expected), one or more clients arriving at least 20 minutes late for any appointment and one or more clients appearing in unexpected places at unexpected times. An example of a situation which does require intervention would be if you see my colleague with two clients but not the third – in this situation it would be perfectly acceptable just to ask him where the other client is (just check – in case he has dropped one of the juggling balls).

So I am going to go off on Thursday and try very hard not to think about work for a week (of course I shall be available for nightly skypes with my three most important clients) and leave my job in the very capable hands of my colleague. Hasta Pronto!

Mad Science

Posted on April 27, 2013 by kabe1 | Leave a comment

Mad scientist (Photo credit: BWJones)

You know how the saying goes…if you fall off a horse, you’ve got to get straight back on again. Well, it’s taken me 2 years but I have held another “Mad Science” party for my son’s birthday and I have survived.

Two years ago, this would never have seemed possible. That party – twelve 7 year old boys in my house (first huge error), one mad scientist and two shell-shocked, utterly horrified parents – ended with me bursting into tears of sheer relief when they all left and only narrowly avoiding an extended stay in The Priory. The only word I can think to describe that party is apocalyptic – “Lord of the Flies” South-West London style.

It was a seminal moment in my child-rearing – the moment at which we lost total control. The boys were in charge and it wasn’t pretty. I genuinely think I suffered with a sort of post-traumatic stress disorder after that party. One thing was certain – never ever ever would I hold a child’s birthday party in my house again. I have kept to that. The other thing I thought was certain – never ever would I wish to hear the words “mad” and “science” in the same sentence let alone combined with the word “party”. Somehow my resolve weakened on this.

That brings me to today – “Mad Science” party 2. Not content with twelve 7 year olds, this time I upped the stakes and we had twenty four 7 year olds (all boys), one mad scientist (female) and four potentially shell-shocked, utterly horrified parents (yes, this time, I shared the annual burden of the birthday party). Before the party, as I contemplated my idiocy in agreeing to endure another two hours of utter hell, I tried to work out what sort of person would choose to endure such a party again at a significant financial cost with absolutely no visible upside. Clearly, I am a lunatic.

Well I survived and you know what….it wasn’t actually that bad. Admittedly the memory is already fading at the edges thanks to the indecently large glass of wine that I am currently attacking like some sort of slightly deranged, dehydrated dipsomaniac. The mad scientist certainly earned her money this afternoon and I am fairly sure she is reconsidering her career choice (she’s just completing her teacher training) after 2 hours with 24 boys, a load of goo, dry ice, bunsen burners, potentially lethal chemicals and a non-launching rocket. I am also certain that being a mad scientist and spending 2 hours trying to control a roomful of crazed 7 year olds must be one of the most effective forms of contraception on the market.

I know I probably shouldn’t say this but I don’t believe I’m alone – children’s birthday parties are an ordeal, something to be endured, an annual burden. But they are a necessary rite of passage and I remember (just) the excitement I felt in the build-up to my birthday parties when I was a child. Of course I wouldn’t want to deny my children that excitement and celebration.

Two things bug me though: firstly, children’s parties were simple affairs when I was a child – some games, home-made cake and a party bag full of nothing much. Nowadays, we are expected to shell-out hundreds of pounds on entertainers or hold our parties in ever more exotic venues, buy in the cake (gone are the days when an 8 inch round with chocolate buttons on it sufficed; no, now kids expect an entire football pitch replete with favourite team and realistic-looking icing turf) and a party bag brimming with the latest must-have toys.

Secondly, “thank you” would go a long way. Not from the kids at the party – they were all very polite; from my own children. After every party we hold for our children, the conversation goes like this: me: “Did you enjoy your party?”, child: “Yup”, me: “Do you have anything to say?”, child – silence, me: “It would be really nice if you said thank you after all the effort we’ve made”, child “thank you”, me “not now, before would have been good…”

Time to collapse in a post-party heap. Ticked that box for another year. Conquered my fear of “Mad Science” parties. Yes, it has been a good day on the whole.

Your Cabin Crew Will Now Point Out Your Nearest Exits…

Posted on April 11, 2013 by kabe1 | 4 Comments

airplane in sky (Photo credit: Sean MacEntee)

Hello, anyone there…? I’m back. Have you missed me? Deafening silence…

You probably haven’t noticed but I’ve been away for the last couple of weeks and haven’t been blogging. Before you get out the bunting, throw street parties and issue special edition stamps to celebrate my return, I don’t want any fuss, any fanfare – I’m a very modest, unassuming person after all – but it would be nice if someone had missed my blogging/whinging/musings about nothing very much at all.

I don’t think it would be fair of me to bang on endlessly about white sand beaches, azure seas, cocktails and all the other holiday clichés. There all true. I don’t want to alienate my readers – particularly British readers who have endured the most vile of winters. So instead I thought I would share with you a couple of observations about the ordeal which is “travelling” – that time of huge stress which prefaces the white sand beaches, azure seas etc. I don’t know, maybe you are a cool, calm and collected sort of traveller…not me, despite my best attempts, travelling is always rather an ordeal, a case of the end result justifying the means.

Packing is a skill I still have not mastered after 40 years. It doesn’t seem to be particularly intellectually taxing or require any particular dexterity or co-ordination – I just can’t do it well.

I usually get off to a pretty good, controlled sort of start but as the deadline for departure approaches my packing becomes frenzied, bordering on manic . I start packing things I could not possibly have any use for, just in case…for example, on this holiday I took not one but two full first aid kits. Why? Good question. What is the likelihood of me needing the entire contents of two full first aid kits on one 10 day holiday? Remote but as I said, just in case…On this holiday I took enough Calpol to administer to an entire children’s hospital – enough to give each of my 3 children a 4-6 hourly dose for the entire 10 days and still only use 1/4 of my supplies – overcatering, perhaps, but just in case…On this holiday, I took 4 jumpers and 4 cardigans, to a place where the temperature at 3am never dips below about 24 degrees. Why? Expecting a freak snow storm in the Indian Ocean? You never know, just in case…

I can only think that this extreme level of preparedness harks from my Brownie Guide days, motto “Be Prepared”. If only I had known then how much excess baggage this would mean I would be forced to take every time I go away, then I might have reconsidered my promise “To do my best” etc and turned my back on the Brownies while I still could. So those of you with daughters, consider carefully the potential long term effects of introducing your offspring to the Guiding Movement.

Airports make me behave in a very out-of-character fashion. I am not a mad shopper normally – I like shopping as much as the next woman but for some bizarre reason airports turning me into some sort of supermarket sweep shopping freak. I feel like I am in a shopping version of “Countdown” – up against the clock, flight leaves in 45 minutes, got to shop, got to shop, got to shop…I find myself considering purchases that I would never even look at the other side of security – a combination, I guess, of tax-free, holiday fever and that old chestnut, preparedness – what if I can’t buy ‘X’ “over there” – ‘X’ usually being something that I would never ever have use for in this country so I have no idea why I feel it might be of use on a 10 day holiday somewhere else.

Finally, time to get on the plane. Why, please tell me, do people queue at the gate to get on to the plane? It makes me want to scream – “Weirdos, your seats are pre-allocated, no need to queue at this point. We’re all going to get on eventually”. I guess this might be a peculiarly British feature – queueing being part of our national identity?

The days of fervently praying that you don’t get the seat next to the crying child are unfortunately a thing of the past for me. I always get the seat next to the crying child…my child. The first 10 minutes on a plane (assuming you are turning right like me when you get on) are spent apologising…apologising to the poor person who despite their fervent prayers is sitting next to you and your screaming child, apologising to the person sitting in the aisle seat in advance for the number of times you are going to have to climb over them during the flight, apologising for practically knocking a fellow passenger out when attempting to put your bags in the overhead locker, then apologising again for having to climb over the person sitting in the aisle seat in order to reopen the overhead locker and get out the particular Peppa Pig book that your daughter wants right now and only now.

You take off – not before you’ve watched the safety demonstration avidly – as if you have never seen it before. For me this is complete superstition – I could pass the British Airways safety demonstration test (if there is such a thing) word perfect – but I have this horrible niggle that if I don’t watch it, then this will be the time that I have to perform a complicated passing of the life jacket strings around my waist, securing them in a knot, fully inflating my life jacket (after I have gone down the emergency chute, having removed my high heels (?)), then using the little tube to top up the air before blowing pathetically on my little whistle (in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean???). I’m afraid I am also always that person who surreptitiously kicks under the seat just to check my life jacket is there. Goes back to the Brownies again, “Be Prepared”.

Then off you go. Within 3 minutes of take-off, at least one of my children has already asked me twice “Are we nearly there yet?”. Thank Goodness for inflight entertainment. I swear my two boys, once settled in front of the screen, did not blink or utter a word for the next 12 hours. I don’t care whether that is bad mothering – flying doesn’t count, anything goes on a plane, survival is all that matters.

Destination reached – fanatical peering out of the plane windows to assess the weather. Unbelievable, after 12 hours in the air – it’s raining…yes, we’ve travelled several thousand miles, endured so much…to step out into the identical weather we left in the UK, just warmer. Welcome to Paradise…

Miss Scarlet in the Dining Room with the Dagger…

Posted on March 26, 2013 by kabe1 | 2 Comments

Cluedo (Photo credit: Chez Pitch)

I think it was Miss Scarlet in the dining room with the dagger. Sound familiar? Cluedo, of course. It’s school holidays again (claps hands with glee) and in a fit of good mothering I have been teaching my boys to play Cluedo.

They have adapted well to the novel concept of a board game (heavy sarcasm) – no buttons to press, no electronic scoring, no “sick” graphics. But Cluedo 2013 is very different to Cluedo c1979. The principles are the same – amazingly “Health & Safety” has not outlawed the basic tenet of someone getting murdered in a gruesome manner in favour of someone being slightly hurt which wasn’t their fault at all of course.

The board has changed – I swear the corridors and hallways between rooms are half the length/size – presumably not to appear too overwhelming for the exercise-shy younger generation of today. We no longer have Miss Scarlet, Professor Plum, Colonel Mustard et al – much less gender specific nowadays – Plum, White, Scarlet etc. The weapons are the same – although dagger seems a little outdated – perhaps “pistol” and “dagger” are used intentionally so as not to be seen to be promoting guns and knives. Of course, the rope is no longer a real little piece of rope, it is a plastic version – almost certainly my old friends “Health & Safety” at work again although what a small child could possible do with one inch of string is beyond me.

Perhaps the biggest reflection of the changing times is in the rooms. Gone is the Billiards Room, in is the Games Room sporting giant TV screen (showing football of course) and among other things somewhat intriguingly a wine bottle lying abandoned on the floor (an interrupted game of “spin the bottle” perhaps?). Gone is the Ballroom (no surprises there, it seemed rather outdated to the average Joe in 1979 too), in is the double Garage and Courtyard complete with faux Greek pillars and gargoyles. Most fascinating of all are the details: in the kitchen, the pre-requisite of a modern kitchen, the island; in the study, the computer with wireless keyboard; in the living room, the corner leather sofa and floor-standing giant sound system speakers and my favourite, in the bathroom, a corner jacuzzi bath and “his” and”hers” side-by-side basins. All very 21st century.

Actually, thank goodness for the details because they gave me something to focus on throughout the somewhat excruciating experience of teaching the boys to play the game. Of course, I have won every game despite my best efforts to lose. It has not proved easy to lose: partly because one son seems totally incapable of not showing me his hand (a rather crucial element in this particular game) and the other son has shown thus far absolutely no understanding of the technique required in order to bluff your opponents; partly, and I am not proud to admit this, I have won every game because I want to win – I know, pathetic to be competitive against your own children.

On a serious note, I am actually very pleased that the boys are enjoying playing a board game. After all so much of my own childhood was taken up with endless rounds of Boggle, Yahtzee, Monopoly, Scrabble and the interminably boring Snakes & Ladders (which I will only now play under extreme duress or with a pre-determined conclusion time). Most gratifyingly, one son actually wants to play Cluedo in preference to watching the drivel that seems to be permanently pouring from the TV screen – in fact, he chose it over The Simpsons – Mother :1, Bart: 0.

Despite my gentle ribbing, I know that the 2013 Cluedo board is much more attractive to my boys than the one of my childhood would be – reassuringly familiar in its details – and that probably goes in part towards their desire to play. Even though by playing the game they are parted temporarily from their beloved screens, the screens are still subliminally playing their part accessorising various rooms in the Cluedo mansion.

Not all changes to board games are a success. Take the version of Monopoly that I saw this afternoon at a friend’s house. All looked pretty familiar but something was missing – the money: no orange £100s, no pink £500s…all replaced by a single “debit card” and a debit card machine. Wrong, very wrong.

If I was to be all worthy about it, I could bang on about how this cashless version teaches children nothing about value, nothing about counting out money, nothing about actually physically handing over money. Of course this is all true but for me a cashless version is an utterly pointless version. How satisfying was it to demand £1000s in rent for your “hotel complex” on “Mayfair” and then watch your siblings/friends hand over a fistful of hard cash? How gratifying to charge an extortionate amount to your already financially troubled opponent for your “Get Out of Jail Free” card? How much did you enjoy seeing your mountain of cash building up on your side of the board whilst your opponent fell on hard times with a measly £500 to his name? Perhaps I am sounding like a rather unpleasant “loadsamoney” relic from the ’80s but come on, that’s what the fun was, wasn’t it? Where’s the fun in a debit card, tell me that?

Two burst pipes, one flat tyre and a partridge in a pear tree…

Posted on March 23, 2013 by kabe1 | Leave a comment

The Big Freeze UK (Photo credit: niOS)

Two burst pipes, one flat tyre and a partridge in a pear tree. Yes, it has been a truly fabulous week and to top it all, we’ve woken up to snow….again.

This has been a landmark year in my relationship with snow. In the past, I have always greeted the white stuff with great affection and childish excitement. In fact, nothing at the grand old age of 40 has the ability to roll back the years to childhood more than pulling back the curtains and seeing snow.

However, relations have got a bit frosty this year. This morning I pulled back the curtains and my heart sank. It is two days after the first official day of Spring and yet again my world is shrouded in white. It is not right and I’ve got this feeling that the snow and I are going to fall out this time.

The children didn’t even bother to look up from the TV when I announced the snow’s arrival this morning. Seen it all before. I guess the only positive from their snow-weary response is that no-one has yet suggested that we must go sledging.

Now don’t get me wrong – I understand how magical sledging is for children but the magic has sort of worn off by the age of 40 for women. I say “women” advisedly because in my experience men turn into 5 year old versions of themselves when they get within a metre of a sledge.

A woman’s experience of sledging is very different to that of a man. First you have to find all the winter clothes, dress three children in winter clothes, take all the winter clothes off again when they need to go to the loo. Finally you get out of the house, usually to be hit full in the face by a snowball thrown by one of the children who inevitably finds this hysterically amusing, whilst you are at this point just mildly hysterical. You then have to haul the kids on the sledges to the slope of choice and stand for approximately 2 hours in the freezing cold whilst they go up and down, only moving to tend to the inevitable first aid crises and to extricate at least one child from a close encounter with some brambles. Of course there is the added dubious “entertainment” of watching grown men flinging themselves down a slope on a small piece of plastic designed for someone a fraction of their weight. Then it is off home again, at least one child now whinging about how cold they are and refusing to go any further. This whole experience then has to be repeated at 3 hourly intervals until the snow has either disappeared or one child has injured themselves to a point where sledging is now inadvisable.

I know I am sounding very ungrateful for the joy that snow brings to children but frankly I’m sick of it this year. It has made me realise that I’m not sure that I could live in a country where snow is a permanent winter fixture. Obviously the UK’s inability to cope with more than a centimetre of snow doesn’t help – for goodness sake, they even shut Sellafield yesterday not because of some “incident” but just so the staff could get home safely!

I think perhaps my antipathy towards the white stuff is less about the snow itself and more about a yearning for this interminable winter to end. Maybe it is an age thing, but this winter has gone on for far too long. In part, the problem has been the lack of blue skies. I don’t mind the cold as long as the sun is out but this winter in the UK it would appear that the sun has taken a sabbatical.

As is the norm in the UK, we have been bombarded with weather statistics by the media. This weekend is apparently the coldest March weekend in 50 years. The media are revelling in compounding our misery by showing footage of people sitting in daffodil filled Hyde Park this weekend last year where temperatures soared above 20 degrees. No country talks about the weather more than we do but ironically no country is less prepared for any extreme weather (and really it is not that extreme is it?) than we are.

I’m off now to hide the sledge and put all the snow clothes up in the loft….just in case, my children get some misguided idea that going sledging would be fun. Then, I’m going to pull myself together and stop whinging – I’m starting to sound like one of my children on the way back from the toboggan run – and try to enjoy what is hopefully the last blanket of white for several months.

I think, therefore I am…

Posted on March 18, 2013 by kabe1 | 3 Comments

Mr Blobby (song) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Daughter (age 3, 6am): “Mummy, I need some Calpol ‘cos I’ve got a tummy ache.”

Me (age 40, one eye open, hangover pending): “Calpol is not for tummy aches, it’s for temperatures and headaches.”

Daughter: “Well, my tummy has got a headache.”

Me: silent, unable to counter “child logic”.

There is something about a child’s impeccable logic which makes it very difficult to argue against. Of course, it is actually not logical at all but it is the conviction with which it is delivered and its ability to catch you totally unawares that makes it impossible to dispute.

It is exchanges such as this which make you realise that how children see the world is so different to how we see it. There is no sense of responsibility, no mistrust, no cynicism, no world-weariness to mould a child’s reactions. They say it how it is, how they see it. Many times when my children say something surprising, it makes me yearn to be a child again. It has always seemed very unfair to me that as adults we have largely forgotten those early days of childhood. It is ironic that our best days are confined to the deepest inaccessible recesses of our memory. We get sudden jolts of that wonderful childhood excitement and wonder. For me, it is the magic of Christmas which catapults me straight back into my childhood. It is almost a physical feeling as you see the world through your children’s eyes.

The simplicity of a child’s thought process is so clear and free from all the forces that affect our adult thought processes. Sometimes, their comments seem to be so left field but in their simplicity they reveal so much about the workings of a child’s mind.

My middle son asked me the other day “How did God make himself?”. I have to admit to being totally unprepared for this philosophical question, coming as it did in that 10 minute window of hell which is the mad scramble to get on the school run. It struck me as very interesting that my 6 year old son was pondering such deep questions at a time when I was picking up Shreddies from under my daughter’s chair and wondering whether I could get away with that good old favourite “pasta pesto” for the kids’ dinner that evening. I’m afraid I batted his question away with a “great question, I’ll have to give that some thought” – hoping to buy myself some time in which at best he would totally forget ever having asked the question and at worst I would have had time to dig out my bluffer’s guide to philosophy of religion.

Children do have a knack of asking or saying the most unexpected things at the most inopportune moments. I remember when I was 8 1/2 months pregnant with my daughter and I was heaving myself up the hill home from the shops with my sons (no doubt again pondering whether “pasta pesto” for the third time this week was tantamount to neglect) my elder son suddenly stopped and said, “When the baby is born, will it come out of your mouth?”. What do you say? Here I am, just minding my own business, wobbling up the hill like “Mr Blobby” (without the yellow spots) blissfully unaware that my son is contemplating the finer intricacies of the birthing process. I admired his logic but this was not the time for a full on discussion about giving birth which would inevitably lead on to the “how did the baby get there in the first place” conversation. I think I responded with a “It’s not quite like that, but not far off” sort of reply. In normal circumstances this would have been woefully inadequate but fortunately he had been distracted by the fact that his brother had stepped in dog poo which of course he found hysterically amusing and I found painfully unamusing as bending down to remove said dog poo, required a feat of almost impossible balance and acrobatic nature totally unsuited to someone in the late stages of pregnancy. Although I have to admit to being marginally grateful for whoever’s dog it was that chose to open its bowels on the pavement just there as it saved me from a complicated conversation with my son.

Despite the difficulties which these questions sometimes present, I absolutely love the randomness of their asking. Amongst the relentless routines and order of bringing up small children, there is something hugely refreshing and constantly surprising about the things they say and ask. The way they view the world is so unpredictable and we should celebrate this short period of their lives when they are not constrained by responsibility, awareness or cynicism. It is through our child’s thinking that we get glimpses of a long-forgotten childhood, of that very special time before awareness creeps in and permeates our thought processes and our responses to the world around us.

Those Two Old Friends – Anxiety and Fear

Posted on March 13, 2013 by kabe1 | 2 Comments

After Dark: Fear (Photo credit: the_exploratorium)

Let me introduce you to two of my closest, long-standing and most loyal “friends”: fear and anxiety. We’ve been “friends” for so many years, I’ve lost count. Like all friendships we have had our ups and downs – sometimes almost unbearably close, other times we have been apart for lengthy periods of time. In their absence, I have thrived, come out from their shadow. As comfortable as I think I feel in their presence, fortunately I do have a wide group of other friends which counter their hold over me: humour, a sense of fun (and the ridiculous), determination and happiness.

I know there are millions of us out there who count these two amongst our nearest and (not so) dearest. Over the years, I have come to understand that it is these two which actually allow me to experience and appreciate their opposites in sharp relief. They have certainly shaped me, but will never define me. They have given me the ability to empathise with, sympathise with and understand others. I am a more rounded person because of them.

Why am I telling you all this? Partly, I guess, because usually my writing is observational and light-hearted but not everything I observe is like this, life is more complicated, and partly in response to an article I read in The Times at the weekend about how you can deal with a child who worries incessantly, who is anxious, unable to relax. Not only did I recognise myself as that child, but also similar traits in my own children – particularly my eldest. It got me thinking…is this a trait peculiar to eldest children? Does that burden of responsibility that the eldest feels from such an early age allow a burgeoning relationship with anxiety and fear which to different degrees stay with you through childhood and adulthood?

I am not just talking about obvious childhood fears, like monsters under the bed (although needless to say I had an veritable zoo under my bed as a child – snakes, sharks, lions, tigers – you name it, they were there – along with the whole cast of Ghostbusters). No, I am talking about those more intangible fears – fear of failure, fear of not living up to expectation (largely self-afflicted), fear of the unknown, fear about taking risks.

In my experience, the second child, without the burden of forging the way like the eldest, feels a sense of freedom from responsibility and a freedom to take risks, throw caution to the wind, unencumbered by fear and anxiety. This is, of course, not to say that fear and anxiety are solely the preserve of the eldest child but in my experience, the eldest is far more cautious and less willing to take risks, more concerned about failure and the “what ifs”.

It will come as no surprise then to you that I am the eldest of three children. My greatest wish for my children is that they do not allow my old “friends”, fear and anxiety, to determine their path in life. To that end, I try very hard not to allow my “friends” to stay in my house very often, especially when the kids are around.

Just because something is familiar, it does not mean it is healthy or not to be challenged. The old adage of “familiarity breeds contempt” is certainly true as far as my old “friends” are concerned and I am finding as I get older (and wiser?) that I am moving away from this circle of “friends” and embracing my new friends – happiness, laughter and joy – much more. Now, I’m 40, I am also ready to discover new friendships – success (as I see it) and fulfilment of potential.

I have realised over the year, that just because these two hanger-ons are familiar, that does not equate with being comfortable. Fear and anxiety are largely self-fabricated and built on no real foundations, just years of being allowed to co-exist. There is no real substance to them, you can just push them away if you really try. Fear and anxiety in a small measure are part of the human condition but you shouldn’t let them be your “friends”. Real friends make you feel good about yourself, boost you, laugh with you, cry with you and support you. Fear and anxiety are impostors – see them for what they really are. Stand up to them and watch them fade. Well, that’s my experience and that’s what I shall be telling my children.

Just a small token of our appreciation

Posted on March 11, 2013 by kabe1 | 3 Comments

English: Mother’s Day card (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I had my annual job appraisal yesterday. Mother’s Day.

I have to admit to being a little nervous as my three bosses can be quite tough on me sometimes. However, I think I’ve had a pretty good year – I’ve shown dedication, commitment, flexibility and a willingness to work long hours in some quite trying circumstances. My strengths: reliable, get the job done, multi-tasker, no job too menial (this morning’s task was picking up 143 Honey Cheerios from the kitchen floor), able to withstand “constructive” criticism (of which there is plenty), helpful with homework (except when it is begun at 6pm on Sunday evening), GSOH. My weaknesses: punctuality (I was 3 minutes late on the school run last week which resulted in a well-deserved berating), sometimes turn up for work less than smartly-presented (tracksuit bottoms are apparently not considered appropriate for the work place), can be a bit “shouty” (my bosses’ description), useless at art/creative school projects (but have mastered the use of “Amazon” for buying in whatever service is required), reluctant ironer (make that non-ironer).

I wasn’t sure what time my appraisal would be yesterday, so when it became evident it was not going to be first thing, I got up and made my own cup of tea and got my own breakfast…It soon became clear that my bosses were very busy yesterday and so my appraisal got pushed back until early evening.

Finally the moment of truth came and I was asked to sit on the sofa and each of my bosses offered their opinion on my work. One of my bosses gave me a written report: “To Mummy, I think you are special because…I like you and you do the washing up”. Nothing if not honest. You can’t ask for more than that – to be liked and to have mastered that life skill of washing up. Very fair, I thought. It might have been nice if she had also commented on the million and one other things I do for her but I guess I must make it all so seamless, she is not even aware of the extent of the services I provide.

Another of my bosses gave me a token of his appreciation for all I contribute to the “Firm” – a mug with the word “chauffeur” on it. How clever of him to have recognised one of my key skills – taxi driving – and to have rewarded me with an official title. My own sort of business card, I suppose. I am very grateful. I sort of like the irony of it being a mug too – who is the “mug”? I suspect that my colleague (husband) just couldn’t resist the little joke when he suggested to my little boss that this would make a very suitable token of his appreciation and was a fair reflection of my loyal service to the “Firm”.

Just at the point when I was feeling overwhelmed by their appreciation, they did genuinely shower me with lovely cards, a candle and flowers. It was worth the anxious wait all day. It would appear my bosses are happy and wish to retain my services for another year. I decided this was not the time to bring up the thorny subjects of remuneration (still waiting for some), days off (looking increasingly unlikely) and my benefits package (if there was one).

However, I am very grateful that they have seen fit to promote me to “chauffeur” from “taxi driver” – or at least I think that is a promotion. Of course I can always exercise my share options too…my option to stop all screen-based activities, my option to enforce the doing of homework more than ten minutes before it is due in and most importantly my option to insist that I am addressed only as “mummy” not “mate” or when things are really bad, “idiot”.

All in all, I work for a great company. I have no real complaints. I wouldn’t work for any other company and I can see no reason why my loyal service of 9 years won’t stretch out to loyal service for the next 20 years (assuming of course that I am fit for work). I am one lucky lady, I have three of the best bosses in the business and I wouldn’t change them for the world.

When in Rome…

Posted on March 4, 2013 by kabe1 | 1 Comment

Villa Borghese gladiator mosaic Español: (obitus)// Iaculator// [——]/ Rodan[—] (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Today is “Roman Day” at my eldest’s school. There is nothing that makes the heart sink further than the thought of dressing up an unwilling gladiator on a Monday morning. Off he went, gladiator-clad (with school blazer over the top), whinging that his Geox sandals were not very gladiator-like (I explained, patiently, that the alternatives were Crocs or his Hi-tops (which incidentally look utterly ridiculous on my thin-as-a-pin child, great galumphing shoes with two little stick legs but he loves them) and it was my feeling that the two latter would seem rather too 21st century for Roman Day). His general mood was not greatly improved when both his brother and friend who comes on the school run with me mocked his “skirt”. I tried to tell him that for the Scots, men in “skirts” were totally normal and very manly. I don’t think he bought it and I’m pretty sure he is probably now at school wearing his tracksuit trousers under his gladiator skirt – a Roman with an urban edge?

Now for the first time in living memory, the sun is shining so it feels a bit mean-spirited to complain – but I’m afraid I’m going to anyway. I HATE all these dress-up days at school. With three children I am perpetually producing a Roman one week, Harry Potter the next, Princess Whatever the following week and, oh yes, world wildlife day – a turtle. These costume days seem to have been specifically designed to yet again show up my parenting inadequacies.

When the children were younger, I sweated over making costumes myself, being all “Blue Peter” and “double-sided sticky tape” about it – it never worked because I am not creative like that and nor am I competitive enough. I remember the Easter Bonnet parade (supposedly a parade of hats made by the children) at my children’s old school being more like a Philip Treacy catwalk show – don’t try and tell me that your children had any input in those creations – don’t believe it for a second. I am never going to be able to compete in that arena so my children would turn up in creations which hadn’t been made by them either but had been made by me – whose artistic abilities rival a 3 year old’s – and were therefore disastrous, bordering on pathetic.

Then I had a thunderbolt moment. One of my sons was a shepherd in his school play and I had to provide the costume. I could feel the familiar sense of dread and panic setting in at yet another test of my creative skills and just while I was musing whether I could get away with one of my husband’s ties as his belt (answer: I could have done in the 70s but not now when school plays are as slick and professional as Broadway productions), it came to me. Why am I doing this? What am I trying to prove? My skill sets lie elsewhere so why am I wasting my time on something which always make me feel useless and which the children equate with ritual humiliation as the models for my “creations”? Buy them…BUY THEM….of course, that’s what I should do. And I did. Off to the supermarket, £7.99 for full-on shepherd’s outfit including rubber crook – bargain.

I haven’t looked back since then and now my first stop when the inevitable letter arrives home from school about some or other dress-up day is “Amazon” – a couple of clicks and problem solved and not any more expensive than buying all the material and bits and pieces to cobble together myself. Result: my kids are happy because they look normal rather than a poor excuse for a Roman/Harry Potter/Princess Whatever/turtle and I’m happy because I’ve averted a wave of inadequacy. OK so there will probably be 10 other Romans/Harry Potters/Princess Whatever (may be not turtles?) decked in the same garb (because, as I now realise, a lot of people do the same), but I don’t care and they certainly don’t – safety in numbers.

One note of warning. Last year, I got so carried away and warmed to my theme a little too enthusiastically. At my son’s old school, they would come dressed as characters from their favourite books on World Book Day. So what did I do on World Book Day at the new school? Sent my son dressed as his favourite character. What were the other children wearing? School uniform. Humiliation for my son and another black mark against my parenting record (one of many)….oh well, character-building for all concerned, I’m sure.

turningtwicetwenty

Category Archives: Parenthood